


The Achilles’ Heel

by booktick



Category: The Following
Genre: Body Image, Implied Relationships, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-03-31 01:41:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3959665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/booktick/pseuds/booktick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan Hardy can’t and won’t let Joe Carroll go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Preface

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: An AU where Joe Carroll escapes for the third time (I suppose it’s set during S3. Summary might change later.)
> 
> Disclaimer: I own none of this franchise. (I own none of Poe’s writing/quotes either. Obviously.)

* * *

 

The living room in Ryan Hardy’s apartment was freezing. It could have been the empty, sinking realization that had fallen beneath Ryan Hardy’s ribs and laid rest. Or it could have been the unnecessary ceiling fan that had been turned on. Either was a possibility for him. The ceiling fan looked ready to collapse in on itself and fall on him yet he made no move to turn off the source of the cold. The cold made the hair on his arms and legs stand up, even had goosebumps that danced along his collarbone.

Ryan had a flimsy blanket barely wrapped around himself, didn’t even remember where he got the blanket. The fabric felt nice though, soft too. It helped some but not enough. He had sat under the same ceiling fan for the last five hours. He was Ryan Hardy. A so called protector and fighter for justice. That’s what they papers labeled him anyway. Why not give in and agree?

He blinked and for a moment the words SERIAL KILLER JOE CARROLL ESCAPES 3RD TIME flashed in front of him then disappeared into more news on a banner for the television screen. He blinked again.

Ryan swallowed hard, roof of his mouth felt sore when his tongue ran over it. The news only made his stomach, already tightened, knot further. He couldn’t think of any pill or liquid that could make it better. Not even sleep could help this feeling.

Nothing makes the feeling of Joe go away.

“Reports show that the rate of crime has increased in several places known as hot zones for Carroll’s followers.” The television announced.

Three times he had let the bad guy get away. That’s what he had told himself each day on the job. Joe was a bad guy and he were the good guy. But the lines got blurred and smeared so much he didn’t know which way was right and which was left. There weren’t bad or good people. People did good and bad all the time. Some were praised heroes and others condemned as walking demons.

“Joe Carroll was set for execution five months ago when he escaped for the third time. Carroll’s escape left a trail of bodies once again.” The television continued.

As his heart pounded faster without Ryan’s attention he leaned forward, as if to get even closer to the television. They had shown various photos, some graphic and others romanticized. When he did focus he noticed most of the photos were of Joe, no real shock there.

Even when the photos changed to pictures of him and Weston, he felt Joe. Ryan could see the curl of lips and the way lines formed in the corners. The way the laugh leaves a chest and it feels so warm. The laughs shouldn’t feel so warm. The room reminded him it was actually cold. He shoved the blanket onto the ground to help emphasis that reminder.

“The escape was a success after Carroll took hostages and escaped by night. Ryan Hardy left his work soon after the escape.” The television reminded the World.

Reminded Ryan Hardy.

Ryan had stared at that television the same amount of time he had remained sat. His vision had blurred a few times and the images of the reporters looked like smeared paint. He had to blink a lot to regain even a fraction of focus after getting lost in his thoughts.

“Joe Carroll was last seen outside the prison he had been held in. The day of his of his third breakout will be remembered in history.” The television warned.

He looked down at his hands. Ryan turned his hands up, palms still covered in sweat. He touched each palm with his fingers for a few moments, traced each line that was scarred from his stitches. Joe had done that before the second capture. It wasn’t about personal signature or even revenge. It was out of instinct.

Ryan wasn’t sure which idea scared him more. That Joe hadn’t given him the scars on purpose or that Joe gave the scars out of an uncontrolled urge. He bit down on his tongue to bring him back. His hands turned back over, bruised knuckles up before he put his hands in his lap. He looked back at the television, at least then he’d forget the scars for a few minutes.

“Joe Carroll was recaptured by chance and luck last time. Third time may be the charm but many claim that luck won’t last forever.”

The comments that came from the television were completely offensive and dismissive of what Joe really was.

Joe wasn’t captured out of chance or luck. Joe was with him that day because Joe wanted to be there with him. Joe made his choice and luck didn’t have anything to do with that. Joe had been so close to him he could still imagine the way Joe’s breath had tickled his skin, how Joe sneered at him. He still could feel the warmth of Joe’s hands on his in their brief scuffle, the way Joe pressed against him and a knife bit into his flesh.

It still stung.

Ryan Hardy took the shakiest breath and the chill filled his chest, tangled around his ribs. It tightened once it got a hold of them and played with his stomach. The faint taste bile laid on the back of his tongue, reminded him he’d be face first in the toilet bowl later no doubt.

“We can only hope Joe Carroll is captured and brought to justice.” The television had such an accusative tone.

Ryan'a frown was deeper than he realized. The frown sunk into his face much like his eyes did weeks ago. It made him look older than he was, not that he had ever felt young. He heard things in his dreams made him feel weak in the knees. Dreams that made it hard to lift his arms

It felt like his dreams weren’t dreams anymore. The dreams filled what little life he lived in his apartment. He could wake, get coffee and remember how Joe’s hands felt around his neck. Joe. Ryan didn’t want to remember Joe, not in his dreams or his life. The dreams were far too thick in each breath he took. The smells and the taste, god, the taste. The taste was what bothered him the most.

_“You have always been my most devoted follower.”_ a voice whispered in his ear.

Ryan’s entire body jerked hard. He nearly fell out of his seat before he managed to grip onto the chair. His dug into the wood and his palms felt wet with sweat. His eyes had widened and stuck out like he had seen a ghost. The voice had touched him, the voice had crawled into his ear and grabbed his heart tight.

**_Fuck Joe._ **

Ryan felt the seat that wet his neck and chest now, no longer on his palms. He had to let go of the chair in the slowest of movements and wiped his mouth with both hands. The sweat had gone to under his nose, the back of his head wiped it away.

He moved to stand up and his legs straightened as slow as his hands had. His legs felt like jello, they trembled and he couldn’t stop them from how bad they trembled. Not even an entire bottle could stop that.

“Come on, Hardy. Go get a glass of water.” Ryan mumbled.

He swallowed again, the roof of his mouth still sore and throbbed whenever his tongue grazed it. The taste of bile had grown to something else. He had to turn his head down some to look at his feet, that only made the bile travel up his tongue. The steps were slow and even but he managed to drag himself to the kitchen, stomach knotted tight still.

His hand slapped down on the sink knobs before they gripped. He turned both knobs at once and let the water run briefly without cause. Ryan let go of the knobs and pressed his palms onto the counter. He stared as the water ran from the faucet.

“Get a hold of yourself, Hardy…” he mumbled.

The television still commented repeatedly about Joe and Joe’s followers and even of Poe. The reporters mentioned about how many Joe had taken down with him with each capture and breakout over and over. There were brief interviews on the steps of a courthouse from Weston. He could hear Weston’s repeated pattern of ‘no comment’ and silence.

Ryan forced himself to tune it out temporarily as he placed his hands under the running water. The water was warm. Like Joe-What…

He shook his head and closed his eyes. The water is warm and that was all that felt warm to him. That had to be a relief from all the freezing showers he put himself through in the last week. He took a shaky breath as he turned his hands slowly under the water. He watched the water ripple over his open palms before he clenched and his hands were fists.

The running water ran over his knuckles and down his wrists. It felt so warm and near soothing. The water’s warmth ran up his hands to his chest and throat. It calmed his heart that had raced its’ way to trembles earlier. He sighed before his tongue wet his lips. His lips pressed together into a thin line.

“Joe isn’t here. You’re alone, Hardy. You’re alone and it’s not the end of the world.” Ryan whispered.

“Joe Carroll was originally arrested by Ryan Hardy in 2003. Hardy arrested Carroll again in 2014 after his second escape. Carroll was reported to have said Hardy was a true and honest friend.” The television slipped back into his ear.

He reached fast and twisted the knobs and turned the water off. Ryan could hear Joe.

“Mr. Carroll, did you try to kill Ryan Hardy?” The television asked.

“ _Kill him_? Ryan’s _my_ closest friend.” Joe sounded so offended.

“Would you ever kill Ryan Hardy?” The television pushed for answers.

Something made a loud noise and distracted Ryan’s attention. His focus left the television as he stepped away from the sink, wet hands dripped at his sides. The water continued to drip onto the floor as he walked back to the living room. There had been something from outside that cawed. His eyes stayed on the windows, he could see a bird on a tree. The bird fluttered its’ wings and cawed again. It looked startled by something.

Was that a crow-?

“That’d be spoilers.” Joe replied.

Ryan turned his head and looked at the television. There was Joe in prison garb and hands cuffed behind his back on courthouse steps, police surrounded him.

“And our book hasn’t been published as of yet.” Joe added.

Joe’s smile took up most of his face and his eyes were too bright on screen.

Ryan felt ill.

“Can you tell us anything about how you feel for Ryan Hardy, Mr. Carroll?” The television was needy.

“That’s enough-” A voice said, out of view.

Joe looked so delighted on the television screen, as if he couldn’t contain a excitement within him. Ryan felt more than ill. He felt fear and anger all at once inside himself. His fists trembled at his sides and his chest shook with each breath he took.

_“But we loved with a love that was more than love_.” Joe boasted.

Ryan hadn’t seen this interview. He was glad to not have witnessed it before or he would have heaved his breakfast on Weston. He could not believe the gall Joe had to associate Poe with them–him. He was sickened.

He reached fast and turned the television off just as they moved Joe out of view. He tossed the remote onto the chair and reached down to snatch the fallen blanket up. Ryan couldn’t even focus enough to wipe away the blood from his nose.

 


	2. Your Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own none of this franchise. (I own none of Poe’s writing/quotes either. Obviously.)

* * *

 

Ryan turned onto his side, back to his bed stand and door. He shut his eyes tighter as the chirps of birds outside woke him. He had woken up twice already in the night. Ryan wanted only sleep yet the World must’ve hated him to let four hours of sleep be justified. He groaned softly and turned his body again. His eyes opened some as he realized he faced the door and the idea unnerved him.

The bedsheets felt soft to the touch. He couldn’t remember if they were clean or not. He couldn’t even remember when he put them on the mattress. The bedsheets were the only thing he could focus on and still not know if they were fresh from wash. But he continued to lay face first on the bedsheets.

The blankets and pillows had been kicked off onto the floor at some point in the night. Ryan couldn’t remember that either. He just knew the sheets felt soft and soft was good. Soft meant warmth and warmth meant safety. Safety meant rest. Rest meant good. He could breathe with soft.

But his phone shook on the bed stand.

His thoughts were interrupted by each ring, more like scattered. His mind murmured Joe before he shoved it back into the abyss where it fucking belonged. The idea that it might be his sister didn’t cross since she had called for the past three weeks, “concerned” about his well being.

He lifted his head some after another ring came and went, vision still blurred as he looked at the screen. He had to wipe his eyes after a few quick failed tries. The screen read Weston. The phone went silent for a moment before it buzzed instead. He let half of his face be hidden in his pillows again before he reached for the phone.

Ryan looked at the phone and, again, Weston’s name shined. He could see the three missed calls alert and read the texts that followed under it.

The phone buzzed again and it was another text from Weston. Ryan groaned as a new text popped up and now he had three more texts than than the last time. He stared at the words until they blurred and he couldn’t see them. It had a nice feeling deep within his chest to pretend Weston and his phone didn’t exist. That way he could finally rest. He knew that was just making the blame shift from Joe to Weston now.

Ryan sighed before he shoved himself up, palm flat on the wet bedsheets. He turned onto his back, pressed up against some of the pillows. He gripped the phone with his other hand, didn’t realize how cold he was. His palms were sweaty again. He didn’t remember having a cold sweat the night before.

There was no warmth when Ryan finally looked back at his phone.

“Thanks, Weston.” he mumbled.

There were a few word choices he was ninety nine percent sure Weston had typed on purpose. A few of the texts we’re worried about yous and a lot of you’re scaring the fuck out of a lot of us, Ryans. He chose the latter to actually read thoroughly before he placed the phone down.

His arms folded and he shut his eyes again. Ryan’s breath was shaky, though not as bad as it had been the night before. Ryan would say at least he had his health but he wasn’t sure if he even had that anymore, not with cold sweats he didn’t remember and long nights of kissing bottled alcohol.

_“I’ve **missed** you, Ryan.”_

Ryan’s eyes flashed opened, widen and alert for the first time in months. He felt frozen to the spot he laid for a moment before a flash flew across the corner of his eye. He shot up, palms on the cold bedsheets. He looked around his bedroom and found himself to be alone. The television on the dresser wasn’t on and the radio sure as hell wasn’t.

There was nothing that could have spoken like that. He tried to pretend the voice hadn’t sounded like Joe, that Joe wasn’t even allowed in his thoughts. He had Joe in his thoughts far too constant, though it was far too early to let Joe’s maybe voice to make his heart pound that hard. Joe was not there and Joe could never be there.

He shoved himself, made his legs swing over the bed and arms at his sides. He briefly shut his eyes and took a deep breath. The breath was shaky, it made his chest hurt. His ribs felt bruised, same for his throat as he tried to swallow. Ryan rubbed his eyes roughly as he groaned.

The floor was as cold as the bed. He could feel the cold creep and crawl into his feet. He groaned louder as he forced himself to walk. His steps were more stumbles at first, tried to stumble his way into the bathroom. He just had to get the door to open, it usually required force by a shoulder. He didn’t remember having trouble with it when he first moved in.

“Fu…Come on.” Ryan murmured.

The door wouldn’t budge. He tried his shoulder the next time. His shoulder started to ache like his ribs as he got the door open. He sighed softer than he had groaned. His throat squeezed as he swallowed, his mouth dry again. He blinked quicker than usual and tried not to make eye contact with the mirror so fast. He hadn’t shaved or done much with his face for a few weeks or more. He was either too tired or too angry, always had an excuse handy if it needed to be explained.

The door handle stabbed his ribs as he squeezed through the space, it only reminded him that they already felt bruised and ached. The jab to his side made his ribs burn. The burn thickened after he took another breath. He sucked the pain up and made his way further into the bathroom. The tile chilled his feet more.

Ryan got to the sink in a few more steps. His hands already twisted the knobs and he heard the water run before he saw it. He placed his hands under the water. The sensation sent the warmth up and inside his ribs. He could feel the burn in his ribs subside. Ryan wasn’t entirely sure how long it’d last. The water felt good, just like the night before.

He finally looked up at the mirror. Ryan somehow managed to maintain eye contact long enough to see how sullen he looked. His eyes had bags and his crows feet had been frozen at the corner of his eyes.  
He wiped his face with both hands, his lips now wet from the water. His hands felt warm with the water, felt even warmer on his mouth. His eyes shut as he tried to enjoy the moment. He reached and ran his wet fingers through his hair a few times.

“Wake up, Hardy.” he sighed.

He let the water continue to run for a moment. It was one of the best sounds, running water. Ryan sighed, the sound couldn’t last forever.

He turned the knobs and the water disappeared. Ryan grabbed the towel that hung on the wall, wiped his hands rougher than needed and tossed it onto the sink counter. He looked back at the mirror, at himself.

The warmth left him again.

His face looked worn down and exhausted from work he didn’t have. His mind had been overactive the past week. That was why he looked like this, dark circles and bags that he could use to carry groceries. He shook his head and turned away.

Ryan’s step became harder and further apart in pace as he staggered back towards the bathroom door. The cold floor felt rubbery instead of cold and wet. He was sure he hadn’t gotten much water on the floor. The wet beneath his feet felt slimy and numbing.

“Jesus…” Ryan mumbled.

He took a few more strides before he grabbed the slippery door handle. He tried to tighten his grip. That made his fingers lock and start to cramp. He had to yank his hand away harder than he would like to. He choked down the bile that came up. It must have been from the pain that shot through his hands.

“Need a new place.” Needed a new life.

He knew he should have taken that deal last month. A cabin looked great compared to his shitty little apartment. It had originally looked cozy and cheap and now it was painful and expensive. He hated the extra weight of worry that hung onto his shoulders. He didn’t even think about housing or much of anything a year ago.

No, because it had been all about Joe then. It was about Joe and Emma and…Claire. But now. Now he focused on getting by and sleep. He barely managed either of the late. He would have to force himself to look at house listings later. He needed sleep. Sleep was good.

The hair stood up on his forearms and a gentle brush to the back of his neck followed. He froze in place at first. The brush had felt like fingers. That scared him to be fully awake, which he sure as hell didn’t want to admit out loud. It was as if the exhaustion that grabbed at his chest was briefly lifted then dropped again. He stepped away from the bathroom door.

Ryan glanced back, his eyes found air. He had been so focused on having his thoughts about sleep. He turned fully and saw his empty bathtub. The curtains were drawn back on it, no one laid inside or stood near it. He looked at the just as empty sink and mirror on the wall.

Nothing.

It had been absolutely nothing.

“Edgar Allan Poe was born in 1809.” a static declared.

He turned back towards the door. The door remained half way open like he had left it. He could barely see the corner of his bed and fallen pillows on the floor. He did not see anyone, not even the radio. The static spoke from inside his bedroom still. He didn’t remember that. He hadn’t reached over and turned the radio on.

“What the hell…” Ryan didn’t understand.

The static spoke a second time.

“Poe was a romantic, most of his writings dealt with beauty.” the static whispered.

Ryan approached the bathroom door again. His hand, still cramped, grabbed the handle and tugged roughly. The door cringed but moved enough that he could slip back into the bedroom. He felt his feet touch the cold flooring and it didn’t feel slimy like the bathroom. Water was not beneath his feet, only wood.

“The beauty of death.” The static had been dramatic.

He looked around the bedroom before his eyes settled on the radio. There was no one near it, no creature that could have brushed against it. There was the still off television beside it and the radio itself, the arrows inside it moved with the lights that flashed on it. It had been a cheap buy at a market; he barely used it in the past. Ryan approached with caution nonetheless.

“Poe was considered fearless in his writings of death and beauty together. It could be speculated that Poe found both to be equally liberating.” the static stated.

The static voice had that same hushed tone as before, like they had shared a secret. Ryan didn’t much care for the dramatic zeal that came along with the static voice that came from it. It felt, deep inside his bones, it felt as though it had triggered the channel on purpose. It had been chosen for a reason, as outlandish as it sounded even to Ryan, it felt like it held a significance. He didn’t want to know that reason.

He reached and turned the knobs on the radio. The static left and the room grew eerily quieter. He could hear his own breaths as he shut his eyes. Each breath was slow and careful, like he had been underwater for a time. He opened his eyes after another moment passed.

Ryan had started to turn when a paper caught his eye. He turned back to face his dresser. There was a folded piece of paper with his name written on it. He stared at the paper for another moment. He took a deeper breath, then reached for the paper. He didn’t remember leaving that there either.

“Well, this isn’t creepy as hell.” Ryan mumbled.

He opened the paper as slow as he could.

He hated surprises. He preferred to not know anything at all anymore. Ryan didn’t want to admit the weights at his chest tugged down even harder. Still didn’t want to when his chest tightened fast. He saw the bottom of the paper.

“Your Friend.” he repeated the words written.

_Joe._


	3. Unknown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own none of this franchise. (I own none of Poe’s writing/quotes either. Obviously.)

Ryan had felt he needed to just anonymously send in the letter but there was no real way around it. It had his name on it, his fucking name. Joe had taken it upon himself to call him his friend and even his lov—The very word written down beside his name…it had made his throat dry first then blister. Joe wasn’t only a killer, no; that wasn’t enough for Joe. Joe had to pull his ego into this letter; he had to prove how much fucked up Joe Carroll could go. Joe could multitask when it came to ruining the world and ruining people. Joe was good at a lot of things, at making people show who they were deep down. Joe was good at making people’s worth be seen as nothing more but degradation. It was proof with how Joe made sure that Ryan Hardy wasn’t the brave man he thought he should be, how it made Ryan doubt everything he had done in the last decade, if he had actually helped people or just made everything a shitload worse. Hate wasn’t even close to what he felt about Joe. Hate wasn’t enough justice to what he felt for Joe. 

  
So, there he was in the department of justice and law with Mike Weston. He had his arms folded at first before he unfolded them; his chest had felt too tight and too hot. He shook his arms as Weston read over the letter. Ryan ended up with a long stare at his palms for a solid ten seconds before Weston said his name for the fourth time. He finally broke eye contact with his hands to lift his head, eyes searched at first—confused—until they landed back on Mike. He blinked and his lips parted, only his breath left him at first. He wasn’t sure if he had forgotten the words or had not wanted to be here in the first place and that dulled his senses, but he found himself like this for another five seconds. Mike raised his eyebrows in confusion, clearly the agent wanted answers or at least a huff. Ryan cleared his throat and nodded some.

  
“Yeah, uh,” Ryan managed to force the words out “I found it on my dresser. This morning…didn’t hear anyone…didn’t see anyone.” He shrugged his shoulders.

  
His shoulders dropped so easily, it was as if a friend had left the letter and now notorious serial killer Joe Carroll. 

  
“Ryan, this is a serious problem. Joe got into your apartment far too easily and if you had just let us-“ Mike tried.

  
“I had just what?” Ryan asked, exhausted. 

  
He looked away, his head hung and his shoulders remained slumped. He was too drained, too much from being tugged down further and further into this pit. Ryan rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands roughly before he lifted his head again. He refused to look at Mike at first; his heart didn’t have it in him for a moment there. But Mike persisted, as Mike often did when it came to him. Ryan knew his friend was trying, he used to be that passionate and that determined. He also saw the understandable crow’s feet beside Weston’s eyes, the lines around those lips and the way Mike’s shoulders sagged a lot like his.

  
“If you had listened to me and let us have people watch your place.” Mike really did try “Then we could have protected you.”

  
“Protected me. Protected.” Ryan smiled “Like we protected Sarah?” He looked back at Mike again.

  
“Like—Like Claire, Mike?” He asked.

  
Mike’s lips seemed to drag, pulled down in his face but not quite a frown. Ryan could feel the hostility grow thick between them, so much that it was like a wall had been built. The wall came down as soon as Mike turned away in that desk chair of his. He had wanted to reach out, to say something like sorry or Joe’s still alive, however, neither felt appropriate on his tongue. He leaned forward anyway without putting too much thought into it, not enough to reach out to grab Mike’s shoulder. It was enough to see how Mike’s fingers moved; something was being typed into a laptop. Mike didn’t turn for a while and then all at once, those blue eyes were locked with Ryan’s again.

  
“Mike…” Ryan was at a loss for words again.

  
“Look.” Mike showed him the computer screen.

  
“I don’t—“ 

  
An article with a picture of 2004 Joe was on the screen with an article below it. It made Ryan’s stomach drop, and if he had had breakfast it would have dropped along with it. He swallowed and found his throat dry; his eyes watered some as he read the words.

  
JOE CARROLL’S FOLLOWERS SEND IN ANONYMOUS MESSAGES.    
JOE CARROLL WATCHING US ALL.  
JOE CARROLL ALIVE.   
JOE CARROLL SURVIVES. 

  
“There are still followers, Ryan. They’re out there just waiting for a sign from Joe, if someone else had found this letter, if you hadn’t brought it in? It would have sent them in frenzy. They could lash out at you all over again and you’ll end up on the bloodstained floor like before.” Mike was pissed.

He could hear the venom in those word, they could bite through flesh to his heart if they wanted. Mike had become an expert in hurtful words. The bite hurt just as much as the bark and he sure as hell wasn’t going to let Joe bite him all over again.

  
“So, what? You’re blaming me for not getting a taxi here fast enough? I got you the letter; it’s there in your department’s hand. It’s done.” Ryan could be just as pissed.

  
“You drove.” Mike corrected. 

  
“That isn’t the _fucking_ point, Mike.” Ryan huffed.

  
“Ryan, Joe is dangerous—“

  
It was Ryan who stood and closed the laptop. He pulled away from it soon after, the touch burned his fingers and he wanted no part of it. He only wanted them to find Joe. He wasn’t a part of this world anymore, he didn’t want to see the articles of Joe smiling or hear the radio spill its’ heart out with how much Joe Carroll had changed things. He gave Mike and the agency this letter, in hopes of…god, he didn’t know. He should have left and let Mike do whatever he wanted with it, let it go, move away like he had dreamt about a few times. At least, when the nightmares were gone, there were those small chances of hopeful dreams. Hope was a long branch that looked ready to snap when it came to him though. Ryan Hardy, hope tree ruiner. 

  
“Joe’s dangerous? Joe’s dangerous? Do you even hear yourself anymore, Mike? Or do you take pleasure in lecturing me about my relationship with Joe?”

  
“I never said anything about your relationship.” Mike murmured.

  
“You sure as hell did and you know it. It’s my fault Joe’s followers nearly got the letter Joe sent ME. It’s MY fault that Joe left a letter. It’s MY fault Joe’s alive.” _Ryan blew._

  
He was still on his feet but his tempter had gotten the best of him in that moment. Everything had rushed and slapped him in the chest hard. Mike stared at him, eyes widened, whether in shock or anger—neither was certain for Ryan. He could see it though, the split second reaction to his outburst. Ryan hadn’t raised his voice in months, not around others anyway. He hadn’t been in the building for months, hell, nearly a year soon enough. But he saw it, the way the hair stood up on Mike’s arms, the way others’ steps slowed around them. People nearby had glanced their way, others dared to stare instead of ignore. 

  
“Did you forget how it felt, Ryan?” Mike’s voice was soft.

  
“Forget what, Mike?” Ryan’s words were drawn out. They were unhurried, too weary to hurry.

  
He blinked as unhurried as he had spoken. 

  
“What the knife felt like.” Mike said, far too easily.

  
“The knife?” Ryan swallowed. 

  
His shoulders shrugged.

  
He knew exactly what Mike said, what Mike wanted to happen here. It made his stomach lurch back up faster and knot into a hard mass that just laid there in his chest, like a weight. The mass seemed to grow at each breath he took, which were as measured as his words were. Slow and careful, that was his mantra for the time being. Mike had a mass, just not as heavy, inside. That’s what they were…heavy. They both had that bond of mass and masks the day Joe took Sarah from this world; maybe even before or maybe it was finally after Claire. Sarah, then Claire, then the rest…hadn’t it gone like that? Ryan couldn’t remember, maybe he didn’t want to, nonetheless, in the end, recollection came to him. That dirty habit of memorization, of taught cerebral fucking discipline bit into his shoulders for a second time. 

  
“The knife that **cut** into you, Ryan. It’s exactly what Claire felt.” Mike replied.

  
That reminder, that no, it was not before or after Sarah or before and after Claire. Mike Weston had those big bright eyes and a future before that, Mike had hope before that, and Mike had ideas and redemption at all times. Hell, even Ryan had chances and choices, even after Sarah had been taken away from the world, from people that loved her and she loved. The mass had only reminded him that it was always there; it was an imaginary courage to act like it had just formed. It was a cycle, fall, or drop, whatever one moment and before it flies, pulls back up in the next moment.

  
“Don’t.” Ryan’s words caught in his throat for a moment.

  
However, he shook his head “Don’t talk about Claire, Weston.” 

  
His smile was inappropriate based on the discussion but it was there on his face. The smile was uncompromising and wretched. It was fury. It was regret.

  
“Ryan—“ Mike tried like before.

  
“I gave you the letter. Work with it. I don’t work here anymore, remember?” Ryan swallowed his rage.

  
He turned on his heel and started to take a few steps before two tall figures stepped in front of him, two tall figures with hypothetical badges from the way they stared at him. They blocked his path and each time he tried to move around, they moved too. Ryan sighed, looked back and Mike didn’t look back. He turned his head down, stared at his feet instead.

“We’d like speak with you privately, Mr. Hardy.” A voice spoke, it blurred in his head—unacquainted “To ask you a few questions about the investigation.” The ongoing, permanent investigation of Joe Carroll is what was actually said, however, not heard. 

  
He turned his head some, and saw the familiar face of Max Hardy. She didn’t smile or frown, she stared and that was all for a long time. Max walked up to him after the awkward moment seemed to pass, her steps louder in his head than they probably were. He realized she had handcuffs in her hands and a badge on her jacket. She was a detective, she was here…was she here…to talk to him? 

  
She nodded to him and he did not nod back.

  
“Let’s go an empty room to speak, Mr. Hardy.” Mr. Hardy. Her words weren’t unsympathetic; they were official, to the point. 

  
“Max–” The name felt distant on his tongue.

  
“Mr. Hardy. Please, don’t.” Max held up a hand, the one without the handcuffs. It sounded an awful lot like a warning to him.

  
“You want to see if I’m one of them.” Ryan assumed. 

  
“Mr. Hardy.” She said again.

  
“Yes. I know the call, Max.” He replied. 

  
Their eyes still stayed locked and he wanted to say he saw hurt in Max’s eyes. He hadn’t said that name in a while. He wasn’t sure if it had been on persistence or avoidance otherwise both. Ryan hung his head again as he followed the two tall figures along with his niece, away from Mike and away from the world it felt like. Max didn’t say another word through entire walk. The walk to the interrogation room, the room Max had tried not to say out right, wasn’t too long, enough for the tension of the current circumstances to remain left in the air. Ryan had shoved his hands down his pockets of his jacket as they walked; it was a pointless attempt to forget what exactly the current circumstances were. He lifted his head at some point, enough to see the door open and the two tall figures behind stood in his way in case he tried to run, not that he had the energy or need to.

  
There was a lone silver table, two similar silver chairs against it that faced each other. He could see the hook where the chain to handcuffs would go, if Max decided to use them at any point of their chit chat. He doubted they’d be used, it was for show, but he didn’t want to push that assumption too far at the moment. To be honest, Ryan thought about he wanted and for a split second the want of a beer as well as a quilt to curl and pass out with came across his thoughts. It was a common thought when he hadn’t slept at all.

  
“Great reunion, kid.” Ryan mumbled.

  
He walked into the room, sat on the left side of the metal table.

  
“Mr. Hardy, in this discussion I would like you to call me Detective Hardy.” Max corrected him.

  
Ryan stared at her for a minute, to see if it was a bluff but she sat down without so much as a glance at him. He sighed heavy before he sat down slower than she had, his hands on the table, palms flat on the table. Her hands were in her lap once she sat down a stack of folders on her side of the table. He glanced at them then looked back up at her face, no smiles or frowns or sneers of annoyance came from him.

“Do you understand, Mr. Hardy?” She asked.

  
He wasn’t sure what to feel about this really. This was his family, his niece, and she was here to talk not about him or how he was or how she was…it all came back to Joe. Most things did in his life for the last decade, it was all about Joe. Joe says was a lot like Simon says but when Joe says something people have a habit of dying, otherwise, vanishing. 

  
“Yes, Detective Hardy.” Ryan repeated her.

  
Max showed her hands again when she opened the top folder of the deck. There were pictures of Joe.

  
He bit his lip for the moment then looked away. 

  
“Joe.” He could have laughed.

  
So, he was right. 

  
“Mr. Hardy?” Max looked at him.

  
“Are you going to ask me the question now?” Ryan asked.

  
“What question would I want to ask first, Mr. Hardy?” Max’s lips tugged, like she wanted to frown but couldn’t…or refused to.

  
“Are you, Ryan Hardy…” Ryan looked up at her.

  
His lips pressed firmly together and he took inhale through his nose. The breath came out unsteady. 

  
“A follower of Joe Carroll?” He finished.

  
He could feel the room start to lean to the right then to the left before it settled back into place. The tiles on the wall were too bright and felt wrong, everything in the room was unsettled and wrong. He felt the itch start to creep into his toes, the wrongness of everything, it gathered up in his legs for a while before it rested into his fingertips. He blamed the uneasiness on Joe. It was always Joe’s fault, why couldn’t this be Joe’s fault too? Why couldn’t he blame Joe for everything? Joe didn’t deserve justice or help or friendship. Joe was the reason Max or anyone in this place, in this city maybe, thought he was some sort of fallen hero. They all thought he had somehow been converted to Joe’s flock, whatever the hell that meant. _All Hail Joe, right?_

Stupid fucking…

  
“Are you?” Max shrugged her shoulders, her voice was soft.

  
Ryan didn’t want an answer. Ryan didn’t want to give the department some sort of indulgence by giving an answer to that question. The idea that he had converted or whatever it was to Joe was an insult. It was a direct slap to his face, to everything he had done and tried to do. This wasn’t about Joe; this wasn’t about anything more than him giving up in their mind. Maybe he had given up, but that sure as hell didn’t give them the right…to assume…to believe he…that he would betray everything. The idea that he could help Joe after everything Joe had done, all the lives he had taken and ruined. That he would give Joe the satisfaction of being what was…right.

  
“Ryan.” Max kept her voice soft, however, Ryan didn’t budge. 

  
She had managed to distract his thoughts, his itch on his fingertips, but that was all for the moment. He was still pissed off. He wanted to go home, to curl up and go home. 

  
Max and Ryan watched each other in a momentary silence.   
The quietness was thick in the room. The quiet made everything feel far too cluttered and too honest. 

  
“Do you know where Joe is?” Max decided to test the waters.

  
“Do you think if I knew where he was that I really wouldn’t tell you, Max?” The waters were pissed too.

  
He fought the urge to sound resentful, to _be_ resentful of her, of them, of the world. He sure as hell could be resentful of Joe though. The strain between them only thickened, like the mass inside him. He could have screamed and no one would have moved to wonder why. He blinked and the strain seemed to double within that moment.  

  
Max shrugged her shoulders for a second time.

  
“I don’t know. I don’t know you. I don’t know what you do or who you talk to anymore, Ryan.” Max answered, “I don’t know you.”

  
He could feel how dry his throat was again.

  
“ _Well, hell._ ” He whispered.

  
Ryan leaned back in his chair, his exhaustion bled into the way he spoke next, and all his words were unhurried and low.

  
“I don’t know me either.” Ryan said.

  
The burn in his throat was tolerable this time.


	4. Dagger and Brass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'm back!...(let's see for how long). But it really has been some time since updating this fic, which I apologize for greatly. This chapter is a bit...all over the place. I hope I got years correct as well as other details. However, I hope you all enjoy the update.

* * *

The alarm clock had blared from the nightstand before it fell with a crash to the floor. The damaged clock shook with a rattled rage until hands picked it up. One hand slapped the button on top of the object. He tried his best to focus on the red numbers but his vision remained blurred, worn from the past week. Ryan had to rub his eyes a few times before he could see what time it was.

Noon.

 _Again_.

He placed the item back on the nightstand. His covers were torn back before be swung his legs over the side. His shoulders remained in a hunched fashion as he hanged his head, eyes shut again. His groan settled in his throat, more of a punishment to his throat than a gift since it still felt like a desert. He placed a hand to his throat, rubbed the flesh some. Heate coated his Adam's apple, the burn lurked behind it as he swallowed again and it traveled as his eyes opened.

"What a day." He muttered.

The hair on his arms stood up as he grabbed the wall to support himself when he stood. His legs wobbled for a moment before he straightened his back. A far too long stare watched the half empty bottle in the pile of clothes near by before it pulled away to go to the turned off television. He couldn't remember if it was there before or not, hadn't he moved it from the living room to there? Less steps, less movements in general when watching it from bed.

Ryan looked away from that too as be stumbled his way to the dresser. His fingers had barely hung onto the handles as he tugged a drawer open, a tangle of socks and boxer briefs greeted him. The sunlight that threatened to expose them both tip toed along Ryan's face and arms along with the dresser's possessions. He rubbed his eyes with the butt of his palms far more aggressively that time. His vision blurred for a moment's blink and adjusted soon after.

He took a pair of each before he settled for his bed to sit down on. He got the briefs on before sleep tugged at his back and shoulders. Ryan let himself fall back against the bedsheets, hugged the socks he held close to his chest. The fabric proved itchy from contact with his chest hair. He couldn't have a moment's peace.

As he let his eyes fall victim to his drowsiness again, he felt the warmth spill over in his belly. His arms fell back to his sides upon the bed sheets and his socks stayed locked in his grip. He felt the years’ toll grip at his back, it tugged at his spine to keep him half awake at best. His thoughts began to linger on the past and now, with little in between, as Joe had put it ‘the past was never dead’, or whatever Faulkner bullshit Joe had conjured up in their moments together. If the past wasn’t dead, did the past fall into the now as well? He tugged a pillow from higher up on the bed and pressed it half way onto his face, enough so he could still breathe while in the position of uncomfortable remained behind. He was too old for this shit, for chasing around Joe Carroll’s ghost like this. 

  
The situation had been different when he first met Joe, everything had been different then. They had been foils of each other at that time. Ryan wanted to believe that. People with their own variety of thoughts and perspective—at least from his experience they had. Joe still had his overwhelming sense of pride and arrogance caked out through the years, developing into something larger in present time. 

  
But this…this had been the early 2000s, where the internet was still forming its’ memes and its’ organization for everyone’s top ten, or five, whatever it was. None of that had mattered to Ryan Hardy, well, some of it did. He still had folders for cats on his laptop but that was another story. At this time, in this year, under his guise, Ryan had taken in arm to arm with Joe Carroll on a university’s campus. The duo had joined together, in an attempt, to rid the evil from campus. It wasn’t real, in the end, it wasn’t as black and white as Ryan Hardy had mistakenly felt at the beginning of their relationship—friendship…friendship?

  
They had gathered up enough information from libraries and stories whispered in the grapevine. He had let Joe whisper in his own ear time to time back then. Joe had a way with words. Joe could be, when he wanted to be, downright charming. Every cult leader needs to have a bit of charisma when recruiting. 

  
He wasn’t sure if he had been a candidate but from Joe and his interactions throughout the years—it was certainly a possibility. Ryan Hardy, cult follower and recoveri—functioning alcoholic, put that on a card. He wasn’t sure if there had been signs before or after he accepted Joe’s companionship on that case—well, Joe had been the case after all so maybe it was throughout it all. Max’s accusations spilled into his thoughts of the fast. Her implications that had been loud and clear for him bled over the image of a much younger Joe and much younger him of him. 

Max had basically accused him of being the closest thing Joe Carroll had in this world now. That it somehow meant he was the key as well the catalyst. The idea had not left him ever since he left. As for his continuous dread, it had locked itself neatly in beside it in his head. He tasted it still, as lingered inside his mouth, like a penny. It was greasy and it stung each time he swallowed. He was not Joe Carroll’s follower. The idea had wrapped itself around inside of him ever since the first trial in 2004. 

He had watched Sarah take the stand, a brave girl with trembling hands and the shakiest voice he had heard. He felt the sickening punch to his chest each time she went into the description of her roommate and how Joe…how Joe had looked that night to her. He had taken only a few glances at Joe during it, seen that way Joe would tilt his head and stare her down. Joe had never let himself get too ahead, even then, not to disrupt the media’s attention too much until things got really grisly after photos got leaked. Joe Carroll, above all things, enjoys a show. 

But before all that, before the trial and before he knew what Joe really was, they had been friends of sorts. Acquaintances felt too stiff and out of place from what they had shared. They had drunk together and had hour long discussions, reflected upon the case and even had a laugh or two. They had been familiar with one another. It would have been a downright lie to say that they were anything less. It was not a lie, however, when he had told the court in 2004 of Joe’s deceit, of the manipulation and the disgust he felt by not seeing Joe sooner. The thing all good detectives tell themselves when they catch the bad guy too late. 

The bottle on top of his clothes only reminded him of it more. The times where he had sat in the oversized, over cushioned chair across from then Professor Carroll. It had been a pattern, a late night, maybe it rained, maybe it didn’t. He would show up at Joe’s by invitation, usually by invitation because Joe was such a considerate host. Joe would offer to serve him a drink, and Ryan, being the naïve guest, he was, accepted it most of the time. 

Joe was only so pleased to serve Ryan. An idea that punched his gut each time in addition to having his reoccurring dreams of the trial, anything with Joe was up for grabs in his dreams—nightmares. They were nightmares. It was rainy, he remembered the rain. He had sat upon the chair and he had declined a drink that time and something had felt off. He could taste that too, along with the guilt and grief that lapped at his throat. This had been something different all together. He had been, like he was now, exhausted—too many all-nighters trying to look over information regarding the case. 

He had felt his eyelids tug close a few times before he was on his feet. He had managed to lift his head, and his eyes had risen. Joe stood there beside him, a look of concern washed over that face of his. Ryan had frowned, eyebrows knitted together and a fixed frown. His palm had pressed against Joe’s chest, felt the roughness of the chosen sweater that night before he actually patted the man’s chest a few times. 

“You look absolutely worn, Ryan.” Joe had said.

“Worn. Yes, I have my clothes on.” Ryan had murmured.

Joe had smelled of cologne. It was cheap and very unlike Joe. He wasn't sure what professors wore at the time but he hadn't expected that. He was sure someone like Joe would go out of their way to be...fancy. Was fancy the wrong way?

For Joe, Ryan would use pretentious nowadays but back then he would have said fancy. Fancy was nice. Fancy didn't butcher people usually. Joe must have shopped at the butcher shop. Bad joke. No jokes, jokes were wrong. He was so tired. His mind grabbed a hold of the past again much like one grabs a life preserver, again, no jokes. He knew better. He wasn't like that.

"Come on, let's get you to bed. You've had a busy day." Joe had touched his cheek--no, it had been Joe's knuckles that had.

He hadn't meant to focus on the cologne, honest, but his big mouth had opened and out came: "You smell  _nice_ , Joe.”"

"I believe it's your cologne you're smelling."

 _Fuck_.

"Joe, you got a _nice_ voice?"

_Double fuck._

It had been an innocent enough gesture--before it all went to shit. It was supposed to be a nice gesture, a way of saying thanks--it came out slurred from exhaustion. Ryan couldn't remember how he had made it to Joe's in the first place. He certainly had to get to campus somehow. He wouldn't have driven like that. The idea of a taxi seemed unlikely too. Ryan hadn't been a fan of those at the time.

"Was that a question or a statement?" Joe had asked.

Joe had practically pressed against him by that point. The warmth had started at Ryan's chest before it swam south. The rain had grown louder by then as well. But in his memories it grew muffled. All he could hear was Joe and his loud mouth of half assed compliments. He could have at least whole assed his comments to Joe as he had when he was in the status being properly alert.

"I'm just saying. I get why people like to hear you talk." Ryan had answered.

"I'll take that as a compliment then." Joe replied.

They had managed, well, Joe managed. They had reached the stairs, mostly on the side of Joe’s assistance, to get to higher ground.

"There we are. You know, Ryan, if you make it a habit of visiting so often people might grow suspicious of my activities."

Ryan hadn't thought twice about the comment. He had kept his lean against Joe, both arms around Joe so he didn't trip over his own feet. He would have fallen asleep against Joe if he had been permitted. Though he would have denied the want all together if Joe questioned it. He was good at confrontation when overwhelmed. He would lie his ass off if put in a situation of unease, whether at high levels or low levels--it didn't matter on which case it was.

However, he had somehow found himself in a bed, shoes off and blankets over him, moments later. Joe had told him that it was no need for thanks when Ryan could barely murmur a thank you. He had tried so desperately to understand why Joe looked at him like that. The shift in Joe’s eyes, it had been there for a moment, if only for a moment. Something…wrong was there. It had grabbed a hold of his spine and yanked before he had jolted awake and it was the next day. All memory of the offness of Joe Carroll had ceased until much later. He forgot the feeling of unease that had buried and nested in his gut until it was far too late.

How un- _fucking_ -fortunate.

~

By the time he had gotten a good set of four hours of sleep, much needed to function at all, he had to wake to another phone call from Max. The past had jogged to the present as Max explained to him that he was needed for further investigation. That any assistance would be appreciated. And what was he going to say? Tell them, tell her, to leave him be? To pack his bags and get the hell outta dodge?

That would raise more suspicion as well as questions he didn't have answers to or didn't want to give answers to. It wouldn't be too long, Max told him, as if this was his first investigator burying a nose into his shoulder for information. He, in the end, had agreed and he regretted it as soon as he sat down at the familiar nailed down table across from his sister. He had slouched some already and with how his bones cracked and popped, all he could do for a time was try to not work himself up. Max, on the other hand, looked professional: great posture and wide eyes with a dash of superiority in the moment.

He wondered if he ever had that look. Could he have had that look without Mike at his side? He felt like a damn amateur in front of Max.

"This is case file #011909. This is Max Hardy recording."

Max spoke like...the only way Ryan could think to phrase it was as if she had been called on in class to read the next set of lines from a play. These lines were not rehearsed but he didn't see the script anywhere around her.

"State your name for the record." Max said.

Ryan's hands had been limp in his lap. His shoulders locked and lowered, stiff to the world. He kept his stare fixed to the small device at the middle of the table. He could see the numbers tick away. They would most likely videotape this so another device was back up, more evidence for whatever it was they thought they might find in the interrogation. 

And if this had been 2002 and things were different, Ryan would have trusted this situation. But it was not 2002 and things had most certainly changed. Not for the wanted better, never for the better--not when Joe was outside the prison walls. Not when he had over a decade of Joe Carroll branded into his very core. His being, his purpose, was lost. He, for once, had no fucking clue what to do next. 

"State your name for the record." Max repeated.

"Isn't this a conflict of interest, Detective?" 

His tongue laid heavy behind his teeth, the words came out slick and hot from lack of proper sleep. His eyelids pulled half way and remained so. Ryan could have let sleep consume but that would only bring him back and he didn't need his own sister thinking...thinking what everyone else had started to assume from the start. He refused. 

"Ex-Agent. Ryan Hardy." Max said it for him.

Ryan dragged his gaze across the room, it swept over the fact there were guards inside the room and not outside--again. He swallowed once and found his throat was a desert. He looked back to his sister once he heard a pen click. Max had never looked away, barely even blinked at all. He wasn't her brother in this situation, was he? He was a person of interest.

"Mr. Hardy, do you understand why you were asked to come in today?"

"To be questioned about Joe." 

The room had to be the size of a cell. It was small and contained. There wasn't much breathing room with all that filled it. He doubted that even he could make it to the door without having to get creative. That was if he had thought he needed an out at all. If he needed an out, he would be labeled guilty. So he remained sat, 

Max's eyebrows lifted, "Joe?"

"Joe Carroll. The serial killer." Ryan replied.

Not that there was more than one Joe Carroll. 

There was no one quite like Joe.

He figured they would try to rattle him. Keep bringing him in in hopes he would let something slip. Ryan had been always been the closest to Joe Caroll's grand speeches that trailed on far too long and littered with over a dozen literary references--at least a dozen. Last time he had seen Joe face to face he counted a dozen anyway and that had been within an hour. Joe had been slacking and Ryan had told him such. It hadn't benefited either party in the end. 

"In the past Joe Carroll grew fixated on you out of all the agents here. Do you believe it was because of your close involvement in the murders on campus before he was arrested for them?"

"Joe Carroll takes pleasure in tearing down people. I found the first survivor who found out what he was."

"And Sarah."

Ryan stared at the device on the table. His eyes grew worn, heavy inside his skull much like his tongue had. His arms now weights at his sides and palms locks upon his thighs. He lifted his head once more, a breath that had been forgotten was taken. He blinked away the wet.

"And Sarah." He repeated, the words clawed at the roof of his mouth.

"In the previous escapes, Joe Carroll would often send you messages. As he did with Sarah's murder and his broadcasts and now a letter-"

"I haven't seen him," Ryan interrupts "If that's what you think I'll admit to by bringing me in again. I have not communicated with Joe Caroll. I have not spoken to Joe Carroll."

"Do you have any idea where he could be, Mr. Hardy?"

"Hopefully? Dead." He shot out, empty of any heat he had previously clung to.

"That's an awfully forward response for someone who's repeatedly gone against protocol and withheld information from his department." Max fired back.

"I was the one who always brought him in I did my job."

Ryan ran his fingers through his hair. His fingers came back soaked by sweat. He could feel the AC in the confined quarters. He swallowed harder, sat up straighter. His actions would be reexamined after this, picked a part. He would not let himself be an emotional buffet for their dissection. 

"You also reported Joe Caroll as dead before." Max countered, her words dug right back into his wounded pride.

"I am not to blame for that. Several people searched right along side me. There wasn't any trace of him. If I'm guilty of not being better than I should be? So are they." 

For a wound to be reopened, it would have had to have healed. Unfortunately, Ryan had no time for Ryan time all thanks to Joe Carroll. This constant race against the man was taking it's toll ever since the first trial. The effects had been gathering into a pile before dropping after Sarah's death. He would not let himself pull the last string, to knot it if he could and hope for the best was his only strategy for now.

"This isn't about that now. This is about Joe Carroll escaping custody for the third time."

Then why bring it up if not to stir the pot further. Ryan placed his hands on the table, his palms flat against the chilled surface. He met Max's stare, his eyelids lifted a fraction. He felt the twitch of flesh at the corners of his eyes as he blinked.

"If I knew where he was, you wouldn't have to be worried about Joe Carroll," Ryan's words crept along his own spine "Joe Carroll wouldn't be able to make another escape."

"Words. Mr. Hardy. Just words." 

But Max had looked away from him, she had scratched out a few more words on her clipboard. He could only imagine what she had written down about Ryan Hardy. He wondered what she had said to them to be permitted this interrogation. It could have very well been the fact they had this bond of sister and brother. Who would know Ryan better than most? Well, besides Joe apparently. 

"Mr. Hardy," she began "Do you believe Joe Carroll is still in the city?"

"No," he shakes his head, his blinking slower "No. That'd be sloppy of him. He wouldn't risk that. Not after the letter even..."

"Even?"

"Joe Carroll likes picking people apart. He'll probably want a reaction. Me turning it in is expected to some degree but it'll disappoint him."

"Why?"

Ryan pressed his lips together. There wasn't a frown but it was close enough. His eyebrows gathered together and stuck. He watched time tick away on the recorder again, they'd been here for ten minutes. It felt longer.

"Mr. Hardy?"

 _Unforgivable_.

No one should forgive Ryan Hardy, he thought. He certainly hadn't. 


End file.
